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Morning at Grimmauld Place had always been loud. But coming home from Milan- a miracle of a holiday in which no one got hexed, lost, or accidentally fed dragon-sized gelato portions- Harry had nearly convinced himself that today would be a fresh, calm start.
He was wrong.
The kitchen was already warm, the enchanted stove humming as it reheated the kettle. A bowl of fruit sat half-medicated by preservation charms on the counter. Teddy, hair a sleepy navy-blue, slouched at the table with a notebook open, half-heartedly scribbling.
Harry was bouncing Scorpius gently with one arm- just enough to keep the baby content without waking him too fully- while the other hand tapped Teddy’s notebook.
“What’s eight times seven?”
Teddy squinted down, mumbled, “Fifty-six… I think?”
Harry nudged him.
“No thinking. You know this. Hermione drilled you so hard last year you couldn’t sleep without reciting multiplication tables in your dreams.”
Teddy snorted.
“Okay, fifty-six. But I don’t get why I need to know this when I’m gonna be an Auror and you just throw spells.”
“Because,” Harry said, shifting Scorpius to the other shoulder and automatically swaying, “numbers make spells work. Ask your grandmother.”
Teddy groaned but pencilled the answer anyway.
At the head of the table, Draco sat with perfect posture, hair immaculate, expression far too composed for someone who had been travelling yesterday. His dressing gown was pristine. His mug of tea sat perfectly aligned with the placemat.
He did, however, have porridge splattered across one sleeve and one cheekbone.
Because toddler Sirius Severus Potter-Malfoy- fierce, messy, and in a mood- was refusing to feed himself that morning.
“Papa spoon!” Sirius demanded, tiny fists banging the table.
“Yes,” Draco said with the long-suffering elegance of someone being held hostage, “Papa is aware.”
He lifted the spoon, offered it, and Sirius immediately grabbed the bowl with his free hand, tilting dangerously. Draco’s eyes widened.
“Sirius-”
Too late.
A glob of porridge flew through the air in a majestic arc and landed squarely on Draco’s face.
Teddy cackled.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh.
“Elegant as always, Draco.”
Draco slowly wiped his cheek with a napkin, dignity crackling around the edges.
“You do the next spoonful.”
“No, Daddy spoon BAD,” Sirius declared, pointing accusingly at Harry with a porridge-smeared finger, “PAPA spoon BETTER.”
“I fear for your future,” Draco muttered, reloading the tiny spoon.
Harry managed not to grin but barely.
Everything felt warm and easy- Scorpius burbling softly against Harry’s shoulder, Teddy muttering sums, Sirius grudgingly swallowing porridge under Draco’s stern care. After the holiday, they were finally settling back into their morning rhythm.
Then the first thump hit the window.
Harry froze.
Draco stiffened.
Teddy blinked.
“Uh… is that-?”
Another thump. Then three. Then something metallic clanged against the glass.
Draco rose slowly- like a man walking into a battlefield.
“I swear to Merlin, if this is Arthur Weasley’s idea of a ‘welcome home’ prototype again-”
But it wasn’t. Because the window burst open with a flurry of feathers and squawks and sudden chaos.
Forty- yes, forty- owls stormed into the kitchen like a feathery hurricane.
Sirius shrieked with joy.
“BIRDIES!”
Scorpius startled awake and immediately began wailing.
Teddy dropped his pencil.
“Oh no.”
The owls swooped, circling the ceiling in frantic loops, letters raining down like confetti.
One envelope hit Draco on the forehead.
Another landed inside Sirius’s porridge bowl.
A third slapped Harry directly in the face.
“WHAT-” Harry began, but then-
BANG!
A howler exploded onto the table.
“DRACO MALFOY, YOU HAVE SOME NERVE-”
Draco’s wand flashed so fast he hardly moved. The howler vanished in a puff of ash before it could finish.
Sirius clapped wildly.
“Loud letter! LOUD LETTER!”
Harry groaned. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
Another owl dropped a stack of envelopes labeled:
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE ENGAGEMENT!!! (with excessive glitter)
Boy Who Lived Betrays Good Taste: An Editorial
Harry Potter Forgets Past, Marries Former Death Eater- DETAILS INSIDE
Weddings Are Expensive: Do You Need Financial Advice, Mr Potter?
And then came the worst of them.
A sleek black envelope with a quill-scribe symbol embossed in dark purple ink.
Draco’s shoulders tensed.
“Witch Weekly.”
Teddy sucked air through his teeth like someone watching an upcoming crash.
“Oh, that’s not good. Gran says it’s never good if you get a Witch Weekly envelope.”
Sirius reached out, seizing another scarlet howler.
“No- no no no- Siri, put that-” Harry lunged.
The howler split open.
“POTTER! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING-”
Draco didn’t even blink as he vanished it cleanly.
Sirius squealed with delight, throwing both hands in the air.
“AGAIN!”
“No,” Draco snapped, “absolutely not again.”
The owls kept flapping overhead, knocking over the fruit bowl, scattering toast crusts everywhere. An elderly brown owl dropped a threatening red envelope in Harry’s lap and flew into the teapot.
Harry rubbed his face with his free hand.
“We’ve been home twelve hours.”
“Thirteen,” Draco corrected grimly, as a fifth howler thumped onto the floor.
Harry glared.
“You’re not helping.”
Sirius meanwhile had climbed partially onto the table, waving at the owls.
“BIRDIES! COME HERE!”
Three owls obediently swooped lower. One landed on the back of Draco’s chair.
Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, in the way that meant he was at the brink of total emotional collapse.
“Potter,” he said tightly, “I should have blocked international post before proposing.”
Harry laughed despite everything. He reached across the table and squeezed Draco’s hand.
Draco squeezed back- harder than he meant to.
Teddy looked between them, soft and fond.
“You two are gonna survive this, right?”
“No,” Draco said flatly.
Harry nudged Scorpius higher on his shoulder.
“We’ve survived Voldemort. We can survive Owl Post, Ted.”
A streak of glittery congratulatory confetti hit Harry square in the forehead.
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Can you?”
Harry flicked confetti out of his hair.
“Shut up.”
Another crash sounded from the living room- more owls battering the windows.
Sirius clapped again, eyes sparkling.
“BIRDY PARTY!”
“Yes, Sirius,” Harry sighed, rubbing his temples, “it appears your Papa and I have thrown a birdy party.”
Draco floated the Witch Weekly envelope to himself, looking at it as though it were cursed.
“With headlines like these,” he muttered, “I suspect a birdy funeral will follow.”
Harry squeezed his hand again, warm and steady. Draco exhaled, some tension unwinding.
Behind them, Teddy picked up one of the congratulatory letters and read aloud:
“‘To Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter- congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. Enclosed: a coupon for a free session of couple’s therapy. You’ll need it.’”
Draco dragged both hands down his face.
Harry laughed helplessly.
Sirius flung porridge into the air, cheering.
“HAPPY WEDDIN’!”
And somewhere outside, at least twenty more owls were lining up on the window ledge.
The engagement was officially public.
And breakfast at Grimmauld Place would never be quiet again.
The next morning, Grimmauld Place was deceptively quiet.
Too quiet.
Harry had just gotten Scorpius down for his mid-morning nap- sort of; the baby was sleep-suckling on Harry’s collar and refusing to let go- when the doorbell chimed with the unmistakable energy of someone who knew they were welcome and yet rang anyway, out of sheer force of personality.
Harry froze. Slowly turned. Met Draco’s eyes.
“Who…?” Harry asked cautiously.
Draco’s face paled.
“The Weasleys have that exact bell charm.”
Before Harry could respond, the door flew open of its own accord- Molly Weasley had never knocked in her life- and she swept into the hallway like a blazing comet of knitwear and maternal determination.
She was holding a stack of colour swatches.
Orange and green colour swatches.
“Oh,” Harry whispered to Draco, with all the doom of a condemned man, “no.”
Draco’s expression went tight. Very tight. His upper lip twitched like he’d tasted something sour.
“She wouldn’t.”
But she already had.
“Harry, dear!” Molly sang, bustling straight into the sitting room, “I came as soon as I heard the news- TWO DAYS, and no one thought to send me an owl! Oh, I could throttle Bill. And Ginny. And Arthur. And- Draco, dear, you look pale.”
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“I am… re-evaluating the nature of existence.”
“Wonderful!” Molly chirped, not listening, and dropped her enormous bag onto the coffee table with a thud that made Sirius jump from where he’d been colouring on the rug.
Sirius took one look at her, screamed happily, and barrelled into her legs.
“GRAN-MOLLY! WEDDIN’!”
“Yes, darling, that’s right,” Molly said warmly, sweeping him up and kissing his cheek, “Gran-Molly is here to help.”
“Oh sweet Merlin,” Draco muttered.
Harry patted his knee sympathetically but didn’t argue.
Sirius immediately began rummaging through Molly’s bag like a tiny, determined Niffler.
“COLOURS!”
“Yes!” Molly said brightly, “We must select a colour palette right away- weddings do not plan themselves. Now I thought, given the time of year, we might go with a lovely combination of tangerine, pumpkin, rust, sunflower, sage, apple-green-”
Draco made a faint strangled noise.
Harry whispered, “Please don’t hex her.”
Draco whispered back, “No promises.”
But before Molly could produce even more orange variations-
The Floo roared.
Green flames shot up the fireplace. And out stepped Narcissa Malfoy.
Elegant as a swan. Perfect hair, perfect robes, the subtle smug glow of a woman who had been waiting for this moment since her son was fifteen and insisting he didn’t “even like boys, Mother.”
In one hand she carried a binder.
A three-inch binder.
White leather. Gold-trimmed. Embossed with PM- Potter–Malfoy Wedding.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
Draco whispered, “She brought the binder.”
Narcissa looked at Harry first- eyes warm, delighted. She kissed his cheek affectionately, before turning to Draco, and giving him a peck as well.
“My darling boys. I am so very happy for you.”
Harry melted instantly.
“Cissy, thank you.”
Then her gaze shifted to Molly.
Molly turned to face her.
Two women with equal power. Equal determination. Equal love for their sons.
They looked at each other like two generals meeting at dawn on a battlefield, both aware that one false move could ignite a war.
“Mrs Weasley,” Narcissa said with cool politeness.
“Molly,” Molly corrected.
A slight twitch of Narcissa’s eye.
“Narcissa.”
“Likewise.”
Total stillness.
Harry and Draco were frozen on the sofa, Scorpius half-asleep on Harry’s chest, Teddy watching from the stairs like he was witnessing history.
Sirius, blissfully unaware of impending diplomatic catastrophe, ran in circles shouting: “WEDDIN’! WEDDIN’ NOW!”
Narcissa elegantly stepped around him and sat regally in the armchair opposite. She opened the binder.
Molly plopped her swatches next to it with the force of a woman slamming down a duel challenge.
“WELL THEN,” Molly said briskly, “We should start with colours.”
“Yes,” Narcissa said sweetly, “Preferably something tasteful.”
Molly bristled.
“There is nothing wrong with colour.”
“There is,” Narcissa corrected, “when it is pumpkin.”
Draco looked personally victimised by the orange swatch sitting nearest him.
Molly puffed up.
“Pumpkin is a warm, inviting colour-”
Harry leaned slightly toward Draco, whispering, “Careful. This is how wars start.”
Narcissa flipped to a tab in the binder labelled Aesthetic Vision.
“The ceremony should embody classical elegance- silver, champagne, soft moonlit hues-”
“I was thinking sunflower blossoms and fresh orchard foliage,” Molly countered, waving a vivid green-and-orange fabric scrap as if it were a flag.
Draco recoiled as though it were a cursed object. Harry gently nudged him before he could say something inflammatory.
Across the room, Sirius crawled under the table, singing to himself.
“Wed-din, wed-din, wed-din…”
Teddy leaned over the sofa and murmured to Harry, “Should we hide, Uncle Harry?”
“Absolutely,” Harry whispered back, “but we won’t get away.”
The Floral Debate began.
“White hydrangeas and baby’s breath, obviously,” Narcissa declared.
“Too cold,” Molly countered, “Needs homeyness. Roses! And marigolds!”
Draco leaned toward Harry and murmured, “Marigolds are the colour of nightmares.”
Harry, stroking Scorpius’s hair, whispered back, “Just stay very still and maybe they won’t notice us.”
Sirius ran past them again shouting, “WEDDIN’ FLOWERS!”
He skidded to a stop in front of Narcissa and launched into a very serious, very impassioned stream of French babbling that Harry could never hope to understand.
“Mèmè! Fwèrrr… fwèr flou-fleurs! Des flouers boum-boum, et un gros chato, et- et- et un gâteau qui fait pssshhh!”
Harry blinked.
“Is he… is that French?”
Teddy nodded, impressed.
“Great-aunt Cissa’s been teaching him. He switches when he’s trying to be dramatic.”
“Do you understand any of that?”
“Not really.”
Narcissa nodded solemnly through the entire babbled exchange.
“Oui, mon cœur. Et ensuite? Really? How clever you are, Siri.”
Molly, meanwhile, pretended not to look insulted that she was not receiving toddler-French confidences.
Scorpius whimpered sleepily and gnawed harder on Harry’s collar. Harry kissed the top of his head and rubbed his tiny back.
Then came the Venue Debate.
“The Burrow is perfect for weddings-” Molly began firmly.
“The Burrow is… drafty,” Narcissa replied, lips thin.
“EXCUSE me?” Molly’s voice rose in outrage.
“I merely meant one should avoid leaning structures,” Narcissa said, cool as a silk ribbon.
“It leans because it is loved,” Molly shot back.
“Architecture is not meant to lean.”
“Children lean, Narcissa.”
“I assure you, my son-in-law is not getting married in a leaning house.”
Harry lifted a hand.
“I really don’t-”
Both women turned and shushed him in perfect synchrony.
Harry sank back against the sofa.
Across from him, Draco mouthed silently: help me.
Harry laughed- soft, helpless, resigned.
“You wanted to marry me. This is your life now.”
Draco slumped.
The Officiant Debate followed.
Narcissa flipped to another tab labelled Ceremony Leadership.
“We should have a highly respected officiant. Perhaps someone from an old family so we can oversee tradition-”
Molly gasped.
“Absolutely not. It should be someone who LOVES them. This isn’t politics- this is a family celebration!”
Narcissa’s expression sharpened.
“Are you implying I do not love them?”
Molly folded her arms.
“I am implying,” she said tightly, “that your family’s public reputation does not emphasise emotional warmth.”
Draco immediately bristled.
“Mother is extremely warm-”
Harry patted his knee.
“She really is.”
Narcissa smiled like a queen.
Molly sniffed.
“Still. I’m not having some stiff-necked-”
“Molly,” Harry interrupted, “I love you, but please don’t finish that sentence.”
Molly pressed her lips together. “Well. Someone has to say it, Harry dear.”
Draco leaned toward Harry.
“This is worse than the Battle of Hogwarts.”
“It absolutely is,” Harry said.
Finally, the Aesthetic Debate erupted.
“Classical elegance,” Narcissa declared.
“Family warmth,” Molly answered immediately.
“Timeless refinement.”
“Joyful vibrance!”
“Minimalistic sophistication.”
“Cake with colour!”
Sirius ran by for the ninth time, shouting, “WEDDIN’ NOW!”
Teddy intercepted him, lifting him upside-down in the air.
“No, bud. First they have to argue for three hours.”
Sirius accepted this instantly.
“Okay!”
The moment Teddy set him on his feet, Sirius whirled and launched back at Narcissa with a torrent of babbling. Harry felt almost sorry for what his son was subjecting her to, but anything to stop the wedding planning, really.
Draco looked like he was in the middle of a deep migraine.
“Mèmè, faut des flou-fleurs tout brillants, et un gâteau avec des étoiles qui tombent, et un cheval qui fait ‘pwah pwah’, et- et- et des lumières qui vont tout partout!”
Narcissa responded fluidly, not missing a beat as she simultaneously slid a page about ice sculptures across the table.
“Oui, mon trésor. Bien sûr. Très artistique.”
Molly slammed down a picture of floating candles in jars with enough force to rattle the cutlery.
Harry leaned toward Draco and whispered, “Should we just elope?”
Draco’s eyes flicked to Molly. Then to Narcissa.
He swallowed.
“I want to live.”
Harry snorted.
Scorpius shifted sleepily and latched onto Harry’s collar again.
Finally- finally- the women turned to the sofa.
“Harry, Draco,” Molly said warmly but firmly, “Which one do you prefer?”
“Classical elegance,” Narcissa answered for them.
“Family warmth,” Molly corrected pointedly.
Both turned expectant eyes to their sons.
Harry looked at Draco.
Draco looked at Harry.
Harry mouthed, don’t you dare leave me here alone.
Draco mouthed, this is your fault.
Harry’s chest shook with suppressed laughter.
Draco inhaled slowly, bracing for impact.
“We… uh…” Harry began.
Scorpius burped loudly against his collar.
Sirius yelled, “WEDDIN’ COOKIES!”
Teddy groaned, “We’re never escaping this, are we?”
Draco slumped forward, hands over his face.
“Absolutely not, Teddy.”
Harry rubbed his back soothingly and, with the resignation of a man who’d survived a war but not a wedding committee, said:
“We love you both. We want… something that feels like us. Whatever that ends up looking like.”
Narcissa and Molly exchanged another calculating look.
For the first time, a flicker of mutual respect passed between them- two women who adored their boys, adored their families, and would fight heaven and earth to give them the perfect day.
“…Fine,” Molly said.
“…Very well then,” Narcissa agreed.
The binder and the swatches were gently- gently- set aside.
Harry exhaled in relief.
Draco melted into the sofa cushions like a dying man.
Teddy flopped onto the floor.
Sirius shouted, “WE DID IT!”
And Scorpius, still chewing Harry’s collar, sleep-murmured, “Mmm.”
Harry caught Draco’s eye.
Draco whispered dramatically, “Help me.”
Harry laughed, soft and doomed.
“Oh love,” he said, squeezing Draco’s hand, “we’re both doomed.”
News travelled fast in magical Britain.
Too fast.
Within twenty-four hours of their engagement becoming public, the entire country- possibly the entire continent- had something to say about it.
A group of fifteen-year-old witches crowded around a charmed magazine stand outside Honeydukes, jumping up and down with the kind of giddy enthusiasm only teenagers could produce.
“Oh my MERLIN- DRARRY IS REAL!” one squealed, clutching her friend’s arm hard enough to bruise.
“I TOLD you,” her friend said smugly, “I TOLD you I saw them holding hands in Diagon Alley once but you said I imagined it!”
“You did imagine it- Draco Malfoy doesn’t hold anyone’s hand except his own reflection,” another chimed in.
“No, no, look!” the first girl said, pointing to a charmed photograph in Witch Weekly showing Harry and Draco walking out of a bakery, Scorpius strapped to Draco’s chest, Sirius perched on Harry’s shoulders, Teddy carrying a bag of exploding fudge behind them.
All four children blew kisses to the photo. Harry looked confused. Draco looked like he was suppressing a hex.
The girls screamed again.
A kind of exhilarated joy radiated from them- hope, excitement, the thrill of seeing themselves reflected in a world that didn’t always welcome them.
One whispered, “If Harry Potter can marry a man… maybe my mum will stop saying it’s just a ‘phase.’”
Her friend squeezed her hand.
An elderly pure-blood long-forgotten patriarch sat in an over-decorated armchair beneath a massive portrait of his scowling ancestors. A newspaper shook in his trembling hands.
“DISGRACEFUL!” he bellowed.
His wife poured tea without looking up.
“Dear, you said that already when Luna Lovegood married that Rolf boy.”
“This is worse!” he cried, slamming the Daily Prophet down, “POTTER marrying a MALFOY? Preposterous! There should be a law!”
From the doorway, his granddaughter- wearing platform boots and a leather jacket- rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible.
“Honestly, Grandpa,” she muttered, “it’s 2005. Get over it.”
He sputtered as she walked out.
The wife sighed, patting his knee.
“Drink your tea, darling. Before you burst a vessel again.”
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas burst into the pub, nearly knocking over a stack of butterbeer crates.
“THEY’RE GETTING MARRIED!” Seamus shouted to the room.
The crowd cheered.
Neville, sitting by the window with Hannah Abbott, choked on his drink.
“I- what- WHEN?!”
“Just announced!” Dean said, waving a magically exploding flyer someone had shoved into his hand outside, “Harry’s engaged! To MALFOY!”
Neville blinked rapidly, then broke into a huge grin.
“Good for him.”
Seamus lifted his butterbeer.
“To Harry finally getting some bloody happiness!”
“And to Malfoy for not being a total git anymore,” Hannah added diplomatically.
Dean raised his glass.
“To love!”
The room echoed him.
Glasses clinked.
Firewhiskey flowed.
A toast to their friend- their leader, their hero, and the man who finally got to choose something for himself.
Three ex-Slytherins- Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Theo Nott- sat together drinking elegant cocktails in low crystal glasses in Theo’s drawing room, the blinds down.
Blaise nudged the announcement in the paper with two fingers.
“Well. Didn’t see that one coming.”
Daphne rolled her eyes.
“Are you joking? Draco’s been mooning after Potter since fourth year.”
Theo snorted lightly.
“I always thought he was trying to fight him.”
“Same thing,” Blaise murmured.
They all paused.
Each one took a slow sip of their drink.
Finally, Daphne said, “Should we send a card?”
Blaise shrugged.
“I suppose. Something tasteful.”
Theo grunted.
“I’ll sign it, but I’m not writing anything.”
“I wouldn’t trust you to anyway,” Daphne said.
They clinked glasses.
“Here’s to Draco,” Blaise said softly, surprising even himself. “He finally got what he wanted.”
Rita Skeeter sat at a table beneath a large banner advertising her newest unauthorised biography: Golden Boy to Golden Groom: The Potter Story Continues!
She grinned widely at the camera-flash crowd as she held up tomorrow’s headline mock-up:
THE BOY WHO LIVED… AND THE MAN HE CHOSE
-with an overly romanticised drawing of Harry and Draco in tuxedos, Draco’s hair blowing dramatically in nonexistent wind.
“This is my best headline yet,” Rita cooed to her photographer.
A teenage boy nearby muttered, “She says that every week.”
Rita ignored him.
She leaned toward the nearest camera.
“I predict this union will shake the very foundation of magical society! A love story of forbidden passion! A political drama! A scandalous-”
Her photographer whispered, “Mrs Skeeter, your quill is… sparking.”
Rita swatted at the magical quill with irritation as it burst into glittery smoke.
“OH FOR- someone fetch me a new one!”
Healers clustered around the staff notice board where someone had pinned the Evening Prophet front page.
Half the room cheered.
Half tutted.
One older healer muttered, “I give it a month,” only to be smacked by her colleague.
Another healer grinned.
“You know what this means? Potter is going to need a stag-night healer. Volunteers?”
Half the staff raised their hands.
Outside a queer-owned café painted in rainbow pastels, the owner spelled the window to read:
CONGRATULATIONS HARRY & DRACO- LOVE WINS (AGAIN)
A group of older queer wizards sipped tea outside, nodding proudly.
“Knew the boy was family,” one said.
“What, Malfoy?” another scoffed, “Oh please. That hair? Those robes? He wasn’t fooling anyone.”
Laughter erupted across the table.
Meanwhile, far from the gossip and headlines, Harry and Draco sat curled together on the living room sofa.
The amount of owls coming into their house had finally died down. Sirius was napping upstairs. Teddy was drawing wedding outfits for their entire family (including the cat). Scorpius slept on Draco’s chest, a small fist clutching Draco’s shirt.
Harry held a stack of clippings and letters.
Draco held a steaming mug of tea and the Witch Weekly article with cautious suspicion.
They read in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Harry let out a breath- half laugh, half disbelief.
“People are… happy. Like, actually happy.”
Draco snorted softly. “Shocked me too.”
Harry flipped through a pile of congratulations.
“I didn’t think- after everything- that people would…”
“Accept it?” Draco finished gently.
Harry nodded.
Draco rested his cheek against Harry’s temple.
“You underestimate how much people love you, dear.”
“And you,” Harry said quietly.
Draco blinked. “Pardon?”
Harry held up a polite but stiff card from Daphne Greengrass.
“People who once hated us are… trying.”
Draco softened.
“Yes, well. We’re very lovable.”
Harry laughed.
A real one.
Warm. Disbelieving. Slightly overwhelmed.
Draco thumbed Harry’s knuckles, eyes distant with vulnerability he rarely showed.
“I don’t know what we expected,” he admitted.
“Not this,” Harry said.
“Not this,” Draco echoed.
They leaned into each other, shoulders touching, hands intertwined.
A quiet moment in the storm.
The wizarding world roared with opinions- loud, messy, varied- but here, on the sofa, everything felt strangely simple.
“We’re really doing this,” Harry murmured.
Draco smiled, soft and full of wonder.
“We are.”
Harry rested his head on Draco’s shoulder.
Outside, an owl hooted one last time.
Draco groaned. “If that’s another howler-”
Harry kissed his cheek.
“You deal with it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Love you.”
“…Damn it.”
Harry laughed again, warm and trembling with affection.
St Mungo’s was alive with its usual weekday bustle- floating charts weaving through corridors, healers shouting for potions runners, stretchers zipping overhead on charmed tracks, and the faint smell of antiseptic mint that coated every surface.
Harry slipped into his treatment bay with a familiar sense of calm. Healing had become- unexpectedly- his anchor. The routine. The structure. The ability to fix something, even when every other part of his life felt bigger than him.
His shift had barely begun when he received his first case: a two-year-old with a rapidly spreading, unstable magical rash.
And that was how Harry found himself kneeling on the floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, face soft with focus, soothing a hiccupping toddler covered head to toe in fizzy green blisters that popped like tiny bubble charms every few seconds.
The poor thing sobbed, fat tears sliding down his blotchy cheeks. His skin sparkled faintly, the rash reacting to his emotions- streaks of yellow lightning crackling across the green.
“Mummy!” the toddler wailed, arms reaching helplessly.
“She’s right outside,” Harry murmured, steady and gentle, wiping a tear away with the back of his gloved hand, “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He whispered a quiet Calmare charm- soft, humming magic that settled over the child like warm wool. The boy’s breathing slowed. His sobs hiccupped out.
“That’s it,” Harry said, voice warm, “You’re brave. So brave.”
The child shoved his face into Harry’s robes, trembling.
Harry didn’t mind at all.
He lifted his wand and cast a diagnostic charm. The blisters bubbled in response, crackling faintly.
“Mmm,” Harry murmured to himself, “Looks like a reaction to a misfired tickling jinx. Nothing dangerous. Just uncomfortable.”
The toddler sniffled.
“Hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Harry said softly, “We’ll fix it, all right? Just breathe with me.”
The little boy mimicked him, shaky but determined.
Harry’s heart twisted.
He always got the tough kids. The scared ones. The ones who clung. Maybe because he was good with them. Maybe because he looked like he knew what fear felt like.
He guided the child through the slow, regulated breathing pattern- something Miriam had taught him for panic spells- and slowly, the magic began to stabilise.
Then-
A murmur.
A rustle.
Soft at first, then growing.
Harry’s body went rigid.
Not again.
He glanced over his shoulder, barely lifting his head above the curtain divider.
A crowd had formed.
At least a dozen people outside the treatment bay- parents, gossipers, teenagers pretending they were lost, and-
Oh Merlin.
A reporter with a notebook, holding a fake patient file upside-down.
One woman leaned toward another, whispering entirely too loudly, “It is him. That’s Harry Potter.”
Another said, “Do you think he’s working today? Imagine having the Boy Who Lived heal you!”
The reporter craned her neck.
“Excuse me, Healer Potter! Can I get a quick comment about your controversial engagement?”
Harry shut his eyes.
Not now.
Not here.
A father with his child in tow pointed openly at Harry.
“Look, son, that’s the man marrying Draco Malfoy.”
Another voice cut in: “Isn’t Malfoy a former Death Eater? Why would Potter-”
The toddler in Harry’s arms stiffened at the rising noise. His blisters flared bright green and popped violently, a few bursting into sparks.
“Hey, hey now- none of that,” Harry whispered, redirecting all his attention, “You’re safe. I’m here. Breathe. Just breathe.”
The little boy whimpered, clinging tighter.
Harry reached blindly for the salve jar on the tray beside him.
“We’re almost done, little guy. Nearly there.”
But the questions kept coming.
“Why Draco Malfoy?”
“Was this an arranged match?”
“Is this political?”
“When did you realise you fancied him?”
“Did you propose or did he?”
“Is it true he’s forcing you to turn Slytherin?”
“Explain the relationship dynamic!”
Harry’s hand shook as he applied the salve to a blistering patch of the toddler’s neck.
He kept his voice soft.
“It’s all right, little one. Ignore the noise.”
But he couldn’t ignore it.
The words burrowed in. Sharp. Invasive. Too close.
He felt a familiar tightening in his chest- a sensation like hands closing around his ribs.
The world narrowed to sounds:
Voices.
Whispers.
Flash quills buzzing.
His own pulse pounding in his ears.
It was happening again.
Public scrutiny.
Cameras.
Demands.
Eyes watching, prying, judging.
He’d done his best to leave that life behind.
He was working. He was helping a child. Why couldn’t they let him-
The toddler peered up at him, lip wobbling.
“You… you okay?”
Harry froze.
Even a sick, frightened two-year-old could see he wasn’t.
He forced a smile, though his eyes stung.
“Course I’m okay, sweetheart. Just thinking about the next step.”
The boy frowned, unconvinced.
Harry inhaled shakily.
The crowd murmured louder, like a sea swelling with pressure.
“Just one quote, Healer Potter!”
“Is Draco planning to take your surname?”
“Are the Malfoys influencing Ministry policy-”
And then-
“ENOUGH!”
Matron Calpurnia Broadmoor stormed down the corridor like a human thunderstorm in starched white robes. A terrifying, magnificent presence.
Her wand snapped upward.
A silencing dome fell over the treatment area so abruptly several people smacked into the invisible barrier.
The crowd stumbled back.
“You lot CLEAR OUT!” Matron Broadmoor barked, voice echoing across the ward, “This is a medical facility, not a gossip lounge!”
“But-”
“He’s Harry Potter-”
“We just wanted-”
“OUT!” she roared, “Unless one of you is bleeding, cursed, hexed beyond recognition, or in the process of sprouting wings, GET OUT OF MY HOSPITAL!”
The crowd scattered like beetles under sunlight.
Matron Broadmoor glared after them, then turned to Harry.
The silence felt thick. Heavy. Blessed.
“You all right, Potter?” she asked, softer than anyone ever heard her speak.
Harry nodded, throat tight.
“Yes. Thanks. I- just want to finish.”
She placed a large, grounding hand on his shoulder.
“Take your time.”
Then she left the ward, hexing a nearby flashing quill into a puddle for good measure.
Harry let out a long, shaky breath.
The toddler looked up at him, calmer now.
“Bad people loud.”
Harry smiled weakly.
“Yeah. They can be.”
He finished applying the salve. Cast a cooling charm. Checked the rash’s magical stability. Bit by bit, the green fizzing blisters faded to a mellow mint sheen- no longer painful, just itchy.
The boy sniffed.
“Better.”
“You did brilliantly,” Harry whispered, brushing the child’s hair off his damp forehead.
When the mother was allowed back in, she scooped her son into her arms, showering him with grateful kisses. She thanked Harry repeatedly- too many times- before leaving for the discharge desk.
Once they were gone, Harry sat back on his heels.
The room felt too big. Too quiet. The weight of the last few minutes pressed down on him like a thick blanket.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes.
He wasn’t crying.
Not really.
Just close.
Too close.
His chest shuddered once- just once- before he forced a steadying breath and wiped his hands on his robes.
He still had patients.
And he absolutely refused to let the world’s questions interfere with the people who needed him.
But Merlin, he was tired.
He stood slowly, leaning one hand against the cot until he found his balance.
Outside the curtain, he could hear the hum of the hospital resuming- mundane, comforting chaos.
He whispered to himself, “Just work. Just heal. That’s all I want today.”
And he stepped into the corridor, shoulders squared, jaw firm, ready for his next case- though the echo of stress and fear still pulsed in the back of his throat.
Draco Malfoy had not intended to step foot in the Ministry that day.
He’d gone in simply to sign a few routine forms for the Magical Commerce Bureau- a tedious but necessary part of managing the apothecary he was currently helping with legal files, owned by Ernie Macmillan. A quick trip, he’d told himself. In, out, back to Grimmauld before lunchtime.
He should’ve known better.
He barely made it two corridors past the Atrium before a familiar rumble of a voice called out:
“Malfoy.”
Draco stopped mid-step. Slowly turned.
Kingsley Shacklebolt- six foot four, intimidating in his authority, but with eyes that had softened considerably in Draco’s own presence over the years (however unbelievable it sounded that he had found a mentor in the Minister of Magic)- stood with his arms folded.
Draco swallowed.
“Minister.”
Kingsley gestured with his head.
“Walk with me.”
Draco obeyed.
They moved down the hall lined with enchanted skylights spilling false sunlight across polished floors. A few Ministry employees glanced Draco’s way- some curious, some wary, several whispering behind hands.
Draco ignored them.
“Well?” he said once they reached Kingsley’s office, “What’s this about?”
Kingsley sighed- the sigh of a man who had fought too many battles to count and was now forced to referee society gossip.
“You’re aware of the reaction to your engagement.”
Draco’s jaw tensed.
“Hard to miss.”
“Yes. The public is… enthusiastic,” Kingsley said it carefully, as though selecting a diplomatic term from a shelf.
“Is that the word we’re using?” Draco asked dryly.
Kingsley’s lips twitched.
“And divided.”
Ah. There it was.
Draco folded his arms.
“The Prophet is having a field day. Rita Skeeter is likely halfway through writing a romance novel about us.”
“She already wrote the first five chapters,” Kingsley sighed, “My secretary caught her interviewing a plant in the Atrium because she believed it had ‘emotional insight’ into your relationship.”
Draco winced.
“Wonderful.”
Kingsley stopped walking and turned fully to face him.
“Look, Draco. You can let the papers chew on rumours- or you can get ahead of them. Speak on your own terms before the narrative is set for you.”
Draco frowned.
“I have no desire to become a tabloid spectacle.”
“You already are,” Kingsley said bluntly.
Draco’s breath caught. He looked away, jaw clenching.
“Harry doesn’t need this, Kingsley.”
“I know.” Kingsley’s voice softened, “But precisely because he doesn’t need this, we need to handle it properly. And Harry isn’t going to defend himself in the press. He never has. Which means someone else has to.”
Draco swallowed hard.
Kingsley continued, “The Prophet’s lead interviewer is downstairs. I asked her here personally. The interview will be fair- because I’ll be reviewing every question afterward. This isn’t about politics. It’s about protecting your family.”
Family.
The word pierced Draco’s chest in an unexpected, almost painful way.
Harry. Teddy. Sirius. Scorpius. His family.
He straightened, expression smoothing.
“Fine. I’ll do it, Kings.”
Kingsley nodded once.
“Good man. Interview room three. Knock twice.”
The room was cold, sterile. A charmed quill hovered over a notepad, already poised to scribble.
The Prophet’s lead interviewer, Celestine Raucher, was a sharp-eyed witch with grey-streaked hair and an expression that suggested she’d seen every lie under the sun. Twice.
“Mr Malfoy,” she said as Draco entered, extending a hand.
He took it with restrained politeness.
“Ms Raucher.”
He sat. Back straight. Chin lifted just enough to be aristocratic without appearing hostile. Hands folded in front of him.
A perfect study in composure.
Celestine clicked her ink pot open.
“Minister Shacklebolt said you’d be answering some questions today- to clarify the nature of your engagement to Harry Potter.”
“Yes.”
“To be blunt,” she said, leaning forward, “wizarding Britain is… fascinated.”
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“To begin,” she said, adjusting her glasses, “why now? You and Mr Potter have been together for some time. What prompted the engagement?”
Draco inhaled slowly.
Harry’s laugh at dawn. Scorpius’ tiny hand curled in his robes. Teddy’s bright smile. Sirius wobbling into their room every morning demanding cuddles. The warmth of waking next to Harry.
He answered simply, “Because I love him.”
The quill scribbled furiously.
Celestine blinked, surprised by the sincerity.
“Love,” she repeated, “Some would say your families were once enemies.”
Draco held her gaze.
“Our families’ history is irrelevant. Harry and I built something separate from it.”
“And you don’t consider this union political in any sense? A statement? A symbol?”
Draco’s shoulders stiffened.
“Absolutely not. The only thing symbolic about our engagement is my commitment to him- as his partner, his equal, and the father of our children.”
Celestine frowned slightly.
“Some critics insist you’re being… strategic.”
“Strategic?” Draco repeated with disdain, “If I were being strategic, do you think I’d willingly invite Molly Weasley and my mother into the same room to discuss wedding planning?”
Celestine choked back a laugh.
“Fair point.”
Draco continued, voice cool but steady.
“Our relationship is not political. It was not born from obligation. It is not a rehabilitation project. It is not a publicity stunt. Harry and I love each other. We raise our children together. That is all there is to it.”
The quill scratched faster.
Celestine watched him intently.
“Some sceptics suggest that Harry Potter might be… vulnerable to influence.”
Draco’s jaw tightened dangerously.
“Harry Potter is the single most strong-willed, infuriating, stubborn, morally uncompromising man I’ve ever met. He cannot be influenced by anyone, least of all me.”
Celestine chuckled.
“So he wears the trousers, then?”
Draco blinked once, then responded with icy precision, “We share custody of the trousers, thank you very much.”
She coughed to hide her snort.
“Understood.”
Draco allowed himself the faintest smirk.
But then-
Celestine’s expression shifted.
Sharper. Harsher. A pivot in tone.
“And what,” she said smoothly, “do you say to the critics who insist this is ‘Harry Potter’s latest mistake’?”
Silence.
Cold. Heavy.
Draco’s eyes darkened.
His entire posture changed- elegant, still, dangerous.
A pause stretched, long enough that the quill hovered uncertainly.
When Draco finally spoke, his voice was frost-edged.
“Harry Potter,” he said softly, “only makes one mistake a year.”
Celestine raised an eyebrow.
“And this one is?”
Draco leaned forward slightly, eyes like winter steel.
“This year’s was agreeing to let you speak.”
The quill stuttered.
Celestine’s jaw dropped.
And from somewhere down the corridor-
Kingsley’s deep, roaring bark of laughter echoed through the wall.
Draco didn’t smile.
But he did look satisfied.
Celestine cleared her throat, flustered.
“I- well- yes- moving on.”
“I’d recommend it,” Draco murmured.
She flipped through her notes in a panic.
“Right. Yes. Next question. Do you foresee a long engagement?”
“Given the involvement of both our mothers?” Draco said dryly, “Possibly an eternal one.”
Celestine actually laughed.
Draco softened just slightly. He answered a dozen more questions- about the children, about daily life, about how he and Harry balanced work and parenting, about the wedding planning chaos.
And at the end of the hour, Celestine set her quill down with a thoughtful expression.
“Thank you, Mr Malfoy,” she said quietly, “This was… enlightening.”
Draco stood.
“I hope it will serve to keep certain rumours at bay.”
She nodded.
“I’ll ensure the article reflects your honesty.”
He inclined his head. “Good day.”
When Draco stepped into the corridor, Kingsley leaned casually against the opposite wall, arms folded, amusement still lingering in his eyes.
“You enjoyed that,” the Minister said.
“I did no such thing,” Draco replied primly.
Kingsley clapped a giant hand on Draco’s shoulder.
“Harry chose well.”
Draco blinked- startled, almost shy.
“Thank you.”
“Go home, Draco,” Kingsley said kindly, “Your family will want you back.”
Draco nodded, smoothing his robes.
As he walked toward the Floo, his steps felt lighter.
Protecting Harry was instinct.
Defending their family was natural.
Speaking his truth- publicly- was terrifying but freeing.
Harry would tease him.
The children would jump on him.
Narcissa would demand he review another binder tab.
Molly would send more swatches.
But Draco was steady.
Grounded.
And deeply, fiercely in love.
He stepped into the green flames and whispered:
“Grimmauld Place.”
Home.
By the time Harry pushed open the front door of Grimmauld Place, his entire body felt like a taut wire- pulled too tight for too long, vibrating with leftover fear he hadn’t shaken off at St Mungo’s.
He shut the door gently.
Very gently.
As if slamming it might shatter something inside him.
He stood there in the entryway for several breaths, still in his healer robes, fingers trembling just slightly as he unwound the green robe. His wand slipped once. He caught it too quickly.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
No Teddy hollering down the hall.
No Sirius racing around with a broom pretending to fly.
No Scorpius babbling in the living room.
No faint hum of a wireless.
Just… quiet.
The kind that didn’t soothe.
The kind that pressed on his chest.
He swallowed hard and moved forward, joints stiff, breath shallow in that way he hated- the way that meant he was one wrong thought away from spiralling.
Draco would be in the sitting room, probably reading or sorting through another avalanche of engagement post. Harry wasn’t sure if he had the energy to talk. Or pretend he was fine. Or even smile.
The corridor swam for a moment, voice after voice replaying in his head:
Why Draco Malfoy?
Is this political?
Did you propose?
Is he controlling you?
What does your family think?
What does the public think?
Smile for the camera!
Explain your relationship dynamic-
Harry’s stomach twisted sharply. He pressed a hand to the wall just to steady himself.
Just breathe.
In… Out…
His breath stuttered on the third exhale.
He hated this part. Hated it.
The losing of internal space. The crowd noise that lingered even when he was alone. The pressure behind his eyes. The lump in his throat he refused- refused- to let become tears.
He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to come home and-
“Darling?”
Draco’s voice was soft, careful, instinctively attuned to Harry’s exact emotional pitch.
Harry flinched.
He hadn’t heard Draco approach.
Draco stood at the end of the corridor, one hand on the doorframe, face attentive and already- already- concerned.
Harry opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He forced a shaky breath.
“I’m- home.”
He hated how thin his voice sounded.
Draco didn’t step forward immediately.
He didn’t overwhelm. Didn’t crowd. Didn’t ask what was wrong. He simply held Harry’s gaze with a stillness that said: I see you.
“Come here,” Draco said softly.
Harry’s feet moved before he could think.
When he reached Draco, the blond didn’t speak. He simply cupped the back of Harry’s neck with one warm hand, thumb brushing lightly at the hairline- a silent, grounding touch.
Harry’s breath hitched as he grappled at Draco’s shirt.
Draco whispered, “Sofa?”
Harry nodded.
They settled onto the couch without discussion- Harry sitting first, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched; Draco sliding in behind him automatically, like gravity.
Harry pulled his knees up. Draco wrapped both arms around him from behind, chest pressed to Harry’s back, warm and steady and real.
Draco tucked his chin on Harry’s shoulder, cheek resting flush against his neck.
The weight of him- solid, familiar- cut through the ringing in Harry’s ears.
Draco’s arms tightened.
Harry let out a small, broken sound he immediately tried to swallow down.
Draco’s breath ghosted against his skin.
“Don’t,” he murmured, “Don’t hold it alone.”
Harry’s hands trembled. He shoved them under Draco’s arms, gripping at Draco’s sleeves like they were anchoring ropes.
“I didn’t-” Harry whispered roughly, “I didn’t think getting engaged meant- losing my privacy again.”
The words cracked in the middle.
He hated how vulnerable it sounded.
Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. He only held him closer.
His voice was quiet but fierce.
“You haven’t lost anything.”
Harry let out a small, humourless laugh.
“The crowd at the hospital-”
His throat closed.
“Draco, they wouldn’t stop. They kept asking and pushing and- I was trying to treat a toddler, and they-”
His breath stuttered again.
Draco pressed a slow kiss beneath Harry’s ear.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Harry did- not fully, just a tilt of his head, cheek brushing Draco’s jaw.
“You’re not alone this time,” Draco said, each word deliberate, grounding, meant to sink deep, “You have me.”
Harry swallowed thickly.
Draco continued, “And we’ll face the circus together.”
Harry’s eyes burned.
The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees- a slow uncoiling, like knots being untied with patient hands.
They sat like that in silence.
Harry breathing in Draco’s warmth. Draco tracing slow circles on Harry’s forearm with his thumb. The house quiet around them. The world outside irrelevant.
Harry’s heartbeat gradually steadied.
His muscles softened.
He exhaled shakily- relief mixed with exhaustion- leaning his full weight back into Draco’s chest.
Draco held him without hesitation.
They didn’t know how long they sat tangled like that- ten minutes, twenty, maybe more- before the silence was shattered by the unmistakably thunderous sound of toddler feet stampeding down the hallway.
Sirius burst into the room with the energy of a lit firecracker, having just woken up from his nap.
“DADDY! PAPA! I-”
He skidded to a halt.
Stopped dead.
His hazel-green eyes widened. He saw Harry curled into Draco. Saw the tense set of Harry’s shoulders. Saw the slight redness around his eyes.
In an instant, the toddler expression- normally chaotic and delighted- softened into something heartbreakingly perceptive.
“Daddy… sad?” Sirius whispered, voice tiny.
Harry winced, shaking his head.
“No, love, Daddy’s just-”
But Sirius had already launched himself forward.
He clambered directly into Harry’s lap, nearly kneecapping him in the process, and wrapped his little arms around Harry’s torso as tightly as he physically could.
“BIG HUG,” Sirius declared, burying his face in Harry’s chest, “Make Daddy better.”
Harry’s breath broke.
He curled one arm around Sirius, the other tightening on Draco’s wrist.
Draco rested his forehead between Harry’s shoulder blades, silently shifting closer to fold both Harry and Sirius into his arms.
Sirius patted Harry’s face with one tiny palm, eyes wide and worried and shining.
“Daddy okay now?”
Harry swallowed repeatedly, trying to steady his voice.
“Yeah,” he whispered, “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
Sirius studied him carefully- as carefully as a toddler could- then nodded and snuggled in, letting out a long, content sigh that pressed warm against Harry’s chest.
Harry’s throat tightened again- but this time for entirely different reasons.
Draco’s hand came up, brushing Sirius’s hair gently before finding Harry’s again.
The three of them stayed like that- Harry wrapped between Draco and Sirius’s small, fierce hug- until Harry’s breathing fully steadied, until the last of the panic eased, until his shoulders finally dropped.
Draco whispered into his hair, “You’re home. You’re safe.”
And Sirius, muffled by Harry’s shirt, echoed, “Safe, Daddy.”
Harry closed his eyes.
And let himself believe it.
The knock on the door came just as Draco managed to settle Sirius with a picture book and Harry had freed himself from the sofa long enough to put the kettle on.
It was a loud knock.
A determined knock.
A knock with purpose.
Harry frowned.
“That’s either Molly with more swatches or-”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Draco murmured from the couch, where Scorpius was currently sprawled across his lap like a very tiny, very drooly cat.
The knock came again. Harder.
Harry sighed.
“Hold on, let me just-”
But before he reached the door, it flew open with a dramatic WHOOSH that only one person in the world consistently managed to make accidentally.
Teddy Lupin stood in the doorway, jacket half-off, hair bright detective-mode purple, and dragging behind him a suitcase nearly as tall as he was.
He looked furious.
Utterly, righteously furious.
“I’M HERE!” Teddy announced, stomping inside like a miniature Auror on a mission, “Where is he?”
Harry blinked.
“Where is who?”
“Anyone mean,” Teddy said, eyes scanning the entryway as though expecting reporters to leap from behind the umbrella stand, “At the candy shop three people were talking about you and Draco and I didn’t like it.”
Draco choked on absolutely nothing.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Teddy…”
“No,” Teddy cut in sharply, dragging his suitcase in with a thunk, “I told Gran I’m staying here all weekend, and she said fine, and then I packed. I’m here to help.”
Harry swallowed a laugh.
“Help with…?”
“Defence.” Teddy dropped his suitcase and planted his fists on his hips, chest puffed out with pride, “I’m here to keep people from being mean to Draco.”
Draco froze.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Just stared at Teddy with a baffled, soft expression that Harry rarely saw on him- the expression Draco wore when he was so deeply, unexpectedly touched it disarmed him completely.
Harry bit back a smile.
“Teddy,” Draco managed, voice slightly hoarse, “that is… noble. But no one needs to-”
“Yes they DO,” Teddy insisted, stomping closer, “People were saying things. They said you were only marrying Harry because of money, and that you were a Death Eater, and that you were probably tricking him and-”
Draco’s shoulders stiffened.
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“And,” Teddy continued furiously, “I told them they were WRONG and that you’re a good papa and that you make the best breakfast and that you’d die if you had to live in a house with orange rugs, and then Gran dragged me out because I was yelling.”
Harry blinked.
“She… dragged you?”
Teddy nodded.
“Yes. By the hood.”
Draco put a hand over his mouth, either to hide a smile or hide the absolute emotional devastation this seven-year-old was accidentally inflicting on him.
Teddy marched straight up to Draco, hands still on hips.
“Are you okay? Did anyone say mean things today? Did you see the Prophet? I’m ready.”
Draco stared at him.
“I am…” Draco cleared his throat, voice softer than expected, “quite all right. Truly.”
Teddy narrowed his eyes in suspicion, then threw his arms around Draco’s neck with a sudden, fierce hug.
Scorpius, caught between them, squeaked indignantly.
Teddy released Draco, then lit up as he saw the baby.
“SCORPIUS!” he cried, as though the baby had been gone for years instead of a few days.
Scorpius squeaked again, but this time in pure excitement, arms waving wildly, mouth open in a gummy grin.
Teddy lifted the baby into a dramatic twirl (gentle, but still dramatic), cooing, “There’s my favourite cousin!”
Scorpius drooled instantly on Teddy’s shirt.
Teddy looked down.
“Nice. Thanks.”
Harry laughed.
But the joyful moment was shattered by another sound-
Tiny, fast footsteps.
Sirius.
Launching.
From the hallway.
Like a toddler-shaped cannonball.
“TEDDDDDYY!” Sirius yelled, leaping onto Teddy’s legs.
Teddy wobbled, staggered, and collapsed backward onto the carpet with a thud, Scorpius landing safely on his chest while Sirius scrambled onto his stomach like a triumphant lion cub.
“I MISSED YOU!” Sirius shouted directly into Teddy’s face.
Teddy wheezed.
“I- missed you too- Sirius- you’re on my lungs-”
Sirius stuck a sticker onto Teddy’s forehead. A sparkly green dragon sticker.
“There,” Sirius announced proudly, “Now you ready for fight!”
Harry, clutching the doorframe to keep from laughing, said, “Ready for fight?”
“Yes,” Sirius said seriously, “We fight mean people. Teddy is very good fighter. Look.”
He pointed at the sticker.
Draco whispered, “He’s naming him general.”
Harry nodded solemnly.
“Commander Teddy.”
“I’ll take it,” Teddy gasped, still pinned under two children.
Scorpius babbled in agreement, smacking Teddy’s chin with a soft hand.
Draco stepped forward and offered Teddy a hand, helping him sit up, even as Sirius stayed glued to him like a koala.
“You didn’t need to come here to protect me,” Draco told him gently.
Teddy rolled his eyes in a perfect teenage display.
“Obviously I did. You’re practically family.”
Draco opened his mouth- likely to correct “practically”- but then closed it, expression unsettled and overwhelmed in the most vulnerable way.
Harry could practically feel Draco fighting not to crumble at Teddy’s fierce loyalty.
Teddy continued, still in commander mode, “And also, Harry said he almost got mobbed at work today. So that means you need more defenders.”
Sirius gasped loudly.
“DADDY GOT MOBS?!”
“Not exactly,” Harry said quickly.
Sirius grabbed Teddy’s face with both hands.
“WE PROTECT DADDY TOO.”
“Yes,” Teddy agreed gravely, “We protect your Daddy and Papa.”
Scorpius gurgled something that might have been “Papa,” or might have been “potato.”
Draco made a small, helpless sound at the back of his throat.
Harry smiled gently.
“Teddy, I appreciate the thought, but-”
“No ‘but’,” Teddy said, scrambling upright with Sirius still attached to him like velcro, “I’m here. I’m staying. And if anyone tries to bother either of you, I’m hexing their shoes off, Uncle Harry.”
Sirius nodded so hard he almost fell over.
“HEX! HEX SHOES!”
Harry sighed.
“No one is hexing anyone’s shoes. Teddy, sweetheart, you don’t even have a wand to do that.”
Teddy pointed at Draco.
“Tell him he doesn’t have to deal with it alone.”
Draco blinked.
Very slowly.
His throat worked.
“I… suppose… I won’t.”
Harry caught Draco’s eye- full of something bright and warm and stunned- and gave him a small, knowing smile.
Sirius suddenly wriggled off Teddy’s lap and tore down the hall shouting, “WE MAKE POTION NOW!”
“No- no, we are NOT making potions unsupervised!” Harry called.
Teddy jumped up to chase him.
“I GOT HIM!”
Scorpius squealed and clapped.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This house is a battlefield.”
Harry leaned into him, bumping their shoulders.
“You wanted to marry me.”
Draco sighed heavily.
“And this is what comes with it?”
Harry grinned. “Every bit of it.”
Draco watched Teddy run past again, Sirius on his back like a tiny general, both of them yelling something about “DEFENCE STRATEGY.”
Draco’s expression softened.
“I suppose…” Draco said quietly, “I don’t mind being defended.”
Harry smirked. “By a seven-year-old?”
“Particularly by that seven-year-old.”
Harry’s heart twisted a little.
He reached for Draco’s hand.
Draco let him hold it.
From the hallway, Teddy yelled, “SIRIUS, WE’RE MAKING A SHIELD CHARM- NO, THAT IS NOT A SHIELD CHARM- THAT’S A BISCUIT- PUT IT- DOWN-”
A crash followed.
Followed by Sirius’s delighted shrieking.
Followed by Teddy shouting, “HARRY! SOMETHING’S LEAKING!”
Harry groaned and got up.
“I’d better handle this.”
Draco squeezed his hand before he let go.
Harry headed toward the chaos.
Draco watched him go, heart full to the brim, then whispered to himself with equal parts awe and disbelief:
“I have an army.”
He looked down the hallway again.
An army of exactly three children, zero discipline, and unlimited enthusiasm.
Draco’s mouth curved into a tiny, helpless smile.
“…Merlin help us all.”
Saturday mornings in Grimmauld Place were never quiet, but this one reached a new level of chaos.
Teddy had burned a pancake (accidentally), Scorpius had eaten a pancake (intentionally), and Sirius had stuck a pancake to the wall (proudly).
Harry and Draco looked at each other over the breakfast table, both silently mouthing:
We need to get out.
So, naturally, they decided on errands.
Which is how, after wrestling three children into clothes, finding Scorpius’s missing sock, removing sticky charms from Sirius’s hair, and prying Teddy off the ceiling (accidental levitation), the five of them finally stepped out into Diagon Alley.
Draco pushed the pram with Scorpius inside- tiny, bundled, blinking sleepily at the sunlight.
Harry carried Sirius on his hip, the toddler clutching a toy broom like it was a sacred weapon.
Teddy walked between Harry and Draco, backpack slung over his shoulder, hair a determined shade of stormy blue.
They hadn’t even passed Florean Fortescue’s before Sirius announced in a booming toddler voice:
“WE SHOP NOW!”
Harry shifted him higher.
“Yes, love, but quietly-”
“NO!” Sirius shouted proudly, “SHOP LOUD!”
Draco muttered, “Honestly, I blame your side of the family.”
Harry snorted.
“Really? Teddy acts like your mini-me, and that’s my fault?”
Teddy, overhearing, shouted, “I HEARD THAT!” from two steps ahead.
Harry ruffled his hair affectionately as they walked.
The Alley was packed- Saturday shoppers, families, teenagers on holiday, hooting owls, floating adverts, and a dense sea of movement that Harry felt in his chest instantly.
It wasn’t dangerous.
It was just a lot.
He set his jaw, shifting Sirius to his other hip.
The whispering started before they made it twenty feet.
“That’s them-”
“Potter and Malfoy-”
“Are they getting married?”
“Oh Merlin, that’s their baby-”
“I heard it was arranged-”
“I heard Malfoy bewitched him-”
“Look at them- holding hands with the kids-”
Harry ignored it. Or tried to.
He kept his posture straight, chin lifted, expression calm but unmistakably stern.
He had perfected that look during paramedic fieldwork training they did at Mungo’s: the look that said- Do not even think about coming near my family.
Draco, meanwhile, took on an entirely different brand of defensive posture- chin high, shoulders back, eyes cold and precise.
His juror stance.
The one he used in Wizengamot hearings and high-stakes legal cases- just enough aristocratic cool to intimidate, just enough poised power to prevent nonsense.
Teddy took a silent step closer to Draco.
A woman near Quality Quidditch Supplies was staring- hard, judgmental. Teddy scowled back, grabbed Draco’s hand, and squeezed.
Draco looked down, startled.
Teddy muttered, “She was rude.”
Draco’s brow softened.
“Indeed she was.”
They kept walking.
More whispers followed. Some good. Some not.
A pair of young witches gasped and clutched each other, whispering excitedly, “They’re real! The whole family!”
A middle-aged wizard frowned and muttered something about “tradition.”
A shopkeeper stepped out to congratulate them, nearly tripping over her own doorstep in excitement.
Two teenagers tried (and failed) to subtly take a photograph.
Harry glared directly at them.
They froze. One dropped her camera.
Teddy whispered, “Nice.”
Harry adjusted Sirius on his hip again, the toddler now chewing on his toy broom.
“I don’t like being stared at,” Harry muttered low enough only Draco heard.
Draco tilted his head just slightly toward him.
“Nor do I. But at least we look formidable.”
Harry’s mouth quirked.
“Formidable?”
“Well,” Draco said casually, “between your murderous glare and my impeccable posture, I daresay we’re terrifying.”
Harry snorted.
“You’re not terrifying. You’re just a fancy peacock.”
Teddy burst out laughing. Draco spluttered indignantly.
“Fancy peacock?! Harry James-”
But Harry cut him off by gently bumping Draco’s shoulder with his own.
A quiet reassurance.
A subtle reminder they were in this together.
Scorpius gurgled happily from the pram, kicking his blanket.
Sirius pointed at him.
“BABY DO KICK!”
“Yes, Sirius,” Draco sighed, “The baby is… doing kick.”
They arrived at Gaspard’s Fine Jewels, where the line snaked out the door.
A teenage clerk spotted them and nearly fainted.
“M-Mr Potter! Mr Malfoy! Right this way!”
They were ushered past everyone.
Harry hated that.
Draco pretended not to like it, but the slight upward tilt of his chin suggested he absolutely did.
Inside, the jeweller greeted them with reverence.
“Ah yes, the resizing spell on the engagement ring- the platinum band with the opals?”
Draco nodded.
“It needs to be less tight. Harry’s fingers swell after long shifts.”
The jeweller’s eyes flicked to Harry like Draco had just confessed the most intimate, romantic detail.
Harry turned bright red.
Teddy snorted loudly.
Sirius announced, “DADDY HAS BIG FINGERS.”
Draco groaned.
Still, the jeweller worked quickly, and within minutes, Harry’s ring fit perfectly.
He flexed his hand, looking at it with a quiet, stunned fondness.
Draco saw the look and softened.
“You like it,” he said in a low tone that wasn’t quite a question.
Harry didn’t look up. “I love it.”
Draco swallowed.
Teddy pretended not to see the way Draco’s cheeks warmed.
Next, they headed into Mini-Magical Me, a shop bursting with enchanted toys and baby gear.
Scorpius squealed and immediately tried to sit up in his pram.
Sirius pointed wildly. “BABY SHOP!”
“Yes,” Draco said dryly, “I deduced that.”
They needed:
- more teething charms
- additional sleep-calming blankets
- one of those anti-explosion bibs (because Sirius had a habit of accidentally creating small kitchen fires)
- and the self-warming bottle they’d broken last month
Harry wandered toward the aisle of calming charms, reading labels carefully.
Sirius immediately grabbed a toy broom that zoomed around his head in circles.
Teddy chased it and nearly fell into a display of musical cauldrons.
Draco steered the pram toward a row of pacifying potions, inspecting ingredients like he was analysing a crime scene.
“Half these ingredients are useless. Who approved this line?”
Harry called back, “Draco, don’t interrogate the baby formula.”
Draco ignored him completely.
A nearby shopper whispered, “Is that Draco Malfoy? And is he arguing with… infant nutrition?”
Another whispered, “Honestly, Potter looks so protective. Look at how he’s holding the toddler-”
Harry shot them a glare.
They both shut up instantly.
Teddy reappeared at Draco’s side, breathless.
“A man over there was staring.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“I glared back.”
“And?”
“He stopped.”
Draco placed a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “You’re very useful.”
Teddy preened.
Their final stop was Brew & Broom, where Harry’s old cauldrons needed repair after Sirius’s lemon-squash incident.
“You cannot pour juice into metal,” Draco reminded Sirius as they queued.
Sirius crossed his arms.
“But it was thirsty.”
Harry rubbed his eyes.
“The cauldron wasn’t thirsty, love.”
Sirius frowned as though betrayed by science itself.
A witch behind them leaned forward.
“Congratulations on your engagement!”
Draco nodded politely.
“Thank you.”
Another person asked too loudly, “Is Potter really marrying a Malfoy?”
Harry’s spine stiffened.
Teddy stepped closer, glaring.
Draco adopted his juror stance- calm, cold, controlled.
Harry shifted Sirius to his other hip, lifting his chin and staring down the aisle like he was ready to duel anyone who dared breathe wrong.
Suddenly, the whispering quieted.
People stepped aside.
Respect. Fear. Awe.
Whatever it was- it worked.
Harry and Draco walked forward together, steady and united, while the crowd instinctively parted.
The worker repairing Harry’s cauldrons blanched when he saw them approach.
“Ah- you- Potter- uh- yes, sir- your cauldron is- fixable?”
Harry lifted an eyebrow.
The worker swallowed.
“Perfectly fixable. Very fixable. Practically new.”
Draco hummed approvingly.
Sirius declared proudly, “WE FIX CAWLDRON!”
“Yes, Siri,” Harry said gently, “We fix cauldron.”
Errands completed, they stepped back into the main street.
The crowd had thickened.
Whispers rose again.
“Look at them-”
“Malfoy looks so posh-”
“Potter’s holding the toddler like he’ll hex someone-”
“They look dangerous-”
“They look sweet-”
“They look… powerful.”
Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. Draco squeezed back.
Teddy walked between them, chin high, eyes fierce.
Scorpius dozed in the pram, tiny fists curled. Sirius thumped his toy broom against Harry’s shoulder in excitement.
The family moved through Diagon Alley as a single entity- steady, determined, untouchable.
And though the crowd whispered…
Nobody stepped in their way. Nobody dared.
They were a force.
Together.
Draco had just finished repositioning the pram when Teddy tugged his sleeve.
“Someone’s watching,” Teddy murmured.
Harry stiffened immediately- healer instincts firing, gaze sweeping the crowd.
And then he saw them.
Reporters.
Not just one. Not two. A cluster.
All angled like vultures spotting a fallen animal.
Harry barely had time to shift Sirius more securely onto his hip before the pack lunged.
A sharp click-click-click cut the air.
Then-
FLASH.
Harry flinched. Sirius jerked violently in his arms.
Draco swore under his breath.
“Bloody-”
Another flash.
Then another.
Someone shouted, “Harry! Over here!”
Another called, “Malfoy! Smile!”
The cluster surged forward, cameras held up like weapons.
Harry hissed, “Back off- there are children- Draco-”
“Don’t touch them!” Draco barked, pulling the pram sharply toward his side, shielding Scorpius with his entire body.
Teddy leapt in front of them, arms wide, voice cracking as he yelled, “BACK OFF!”
But they didn’t listen.
Flashes went off again. Closer. Brighter. Faster.
Sirius startled hard at the burst of light- his small body jerking, fingers spasming on Harry’s collar.
His eyes went wide.
Harry felt it- the split second of panic, the “I am overwhelmed,” the toddler fear blooming like fire.
“Sirius, it’s okay- Daddy’s here, I have you-”
Another flash.
Sirius cried out and twisted.
“Siri- no, no, baby boy-”
For one instant- one horrible, blinding instant- Harry squeezed his eyes against the flash but didn’t feel the familiar weight in his arms.
Because Sirius had let go.
He stumbled backward, eyes blinded by the light, and Harry’s hand snatched desperately for him-
“Wait- Sirius-!”
But Harry’s fingers closed on empty air.
And Sirius disappeared into the sea of legs and robes.
Everything broke at once.
Scorpius, startled by the shouting and flashes, began to wail- high, sharp, distressed. Draco immediately bent over the pram, hands shaking as he rocked it, voice frantic but soft.
“Shh, darling- Papa’s here, I’ve got you-”
Reporters kept shouting questions:
“Harry, look here-!”
“Draco, what are your wedding plans-?”
“Is this your family-?”
Harry didn’t hear any of it.
His world shrank to a single point of horror.
“Teddy,” Harry gasped, breath already breaking, “where- where is he-”
Teddy spun in a circle.
“I- I can’t see him! Uncle Harry, I can’t-”
Harry’s chest seized.
The edges of his vision tunnelled.
Blood roared in his ears.
The flashes, the crowd, the shouting- it blurred into one suffocating wall of noise.
And over it all-
“SIRIUUUUUS!”
Harry’s scream ripped through Diagon Alley.
Raw. Panicked. Animalistic.
“SIRIUS!”
Heads turned instantly.
Mothers grabbed their own children. Shopkeepers froze mid-step. A witch near Madam Malkin’s dropped an entire armful of robes.
Draco’s head snapped up. His face drained of all colour.
“Harry, sweetheart-” Draco reached for him, but Harry was already moving.
No- running.
His voice tore out of him again, louder, choked, frantic-
“SIRIUUUUS! SIRIUS, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
He shoved past reporters without mercy. Past strangers. Past gawkers.
He didn’t care who he knocked aside.
He didn’t care who stared.
All he saw were shadows and legs and tiny spaces a toddler could slip into.
All he heard was the phantom echo of Sirius’s earlier laughter.
All he felt was his own heartbeat smashing against his ribs.
Because Sirius was small.
Because Sirius was quick.
Because Sirius was frightened.
Because Sirius was blind from the flashes.
Because his baby- his baby- was gone.
Draco barked something behind him- orders, commands, threats- but Harry hardly processed it.
He just ran.
“SIRI! SIRI, BABY, ANSWER ME!”
Teddy bolted after him, face ashen, breath wheezing.
“SIRIUS! SIRI, COME OUT!”
People stepped aside quickly now- Harry Potter in full panic was not something anyone wanted to stand in the way of.
Harry scanned every doorway. Every alley cut-through. Every shop window reflection.
His throat burned.
“SIRIUS!”
Somewhere behind him, Draco shouted desperately, “HARRY- WAIT-!”
But Harry couldn’t wait. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think.
He saw a flash of something small by the steps of Flourish & Blotts and sprinted toward it.
Another false alarm.
He staggered, gasping.
Teddy reached him, panting, grabbing Harry’s sleeve.
“We’ll find him- we’ll find him- Uncle Harry-”
Harry’s breath heaved in his chest, choking him.
“He- he’s scared- Teddy, he’s scared and alone and-”
Another shout cut across them.
“HEY- DID ANYONE LOSE A LITTLE KID?!”
Harry spun so fast it hurt.
A shopkeeper stood halfway up the road, waving frantically.
“Got a toddler over here- curls- keeps yelling ‘Daddy’-!”
Harry didn’t wait for the rest.
He ran- life or death, wand forgotten, lungs burning- until he reached the shopfront.
And there- half-hidden behind a stack of crates-
Sirius stood.
Sobbing. Trembling.
Little fists rubbing his eyes.
Cheeks blotchy with tears.
Curls sticky with sweat plastered to his forehead.
“D-Daddy,” Sirius hiccupped, voice tiny and broken, “Is bright. Is- no see-”
Harry dropped to his knees so hard the ground jarred his bones.
He scooped Sirius into his arms, crushing him against his chest, holding him like he could fuse them together.
“Oh- oh thank Merlin- Sirius- baby- Daddy’s here, I’ve got you, I’ve got you-”
Sirius clung to him, sobbing into his collar.
“Daddy- Daddy- gone- bright- scary-”
“I know, love- I know- I’m so sorry- I’m so, so sorry-”
Harry pressed his face into Sirius’s hair, shaking uncontrollably.
Teddy reached them and threw his arms around both of them, burying his face against Harry’s shoulder, whispering, “It’s okay- it’s okay- we’ve got him- we’ve got him-”
Draco arrived seconds later, breathless, pushing the pram one-handed, face wild and terrified.
“Harry- Sirius- oh, thank Merlin-”
He dropped to the ground too, one hand trembling as he reached out to touch Sirius’s back, the other gripping Harry’s arm so tightly it might bruise.
Harry leaned into him.
Draco leaned back.
Sirius cried harder, overwhelmed by relief and fear and safety.
Draco whispered, voice wrecked, “You found him. Harry- you found him.”
Harry choked out a breath. “I thought- I thought-”
“I know,” Draco murmured, “Me too.”
Around them, the crowd stayed at a respectful distance now- silent, sobered, shaken by the sight of the family’s raw panic.
Scorpius hiccupped in the pram, sensing the tension but not understanding.
Draco shifted to rock the pram gently with one knee.
Harry held Sirius tighter.
Teddy kept one arm wrapped around Harry’s back, breath coming fast but steadier now.
And together- in the middle of Diagon Alley, with the world watching- they stayed on the cobblestones, clinging to each other until Sirius’s sobs softened into shaky sniffles.
Harry kissed every inch of his hair.
Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s temple.
Teddy whispered, “We’re okay now. All of us.”
And for the first time in several terrified minutes-
Harry let himself believe it.
Diagon Alley was still buzzing with early evening crowds, warm lantern-light spilling from shop windows and casting gold across the cobblestones. The smell of roasted chestnuts and spell-scorched parchment lingered in the air, and a group of students darted past them toward Sugarplum’s, chattering excitedly.
Harry barely registered the noise.
All he felt was Sirius.
The toddler was glued to his chest like a starfish- arms locked around Harry’s shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist, face buried in Harry’s collar as he hiccupped tiny, exhausted sobs. His dragon- they’d brought it out from the pram to calm him down- hung limply from one hand, the fur still slightly damp from earlier tears.
Draco walked beside them, close enough that his arm brushed Harry’s every few steps. Every now and then he would glance over, eyes softening at the sight of Sirius clinging so desperately. He didn’t try to take him- Sirius wasn’t letting go of Harry for any reason- but Draco’s presence stayed steady, grounding.
Teddy held Draco’s hand, swinging their bags in the other. His hair was a tired brown—his “worried colour”- and he kept looking up at Sirius with a little crease between his eyebrows.
“Is he okay, Uncle Harry?” he whispered.
Harry kissed the top of Sirius’s head.
“Yeah, love. Just tired. And scared. And probably sticky.”
“Sticky,” Sirius mumbled miserably, face still hidden, “Daddy no go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, bug,” Harry murmured.
The four of them had just stepped out of Flourish and Blotts when it happened.
They were passing a group of witches- middle-aged, very polished, the type who looked like they ironed their hats- when one of them made a disgusted noise and muttered far too loudly:
“Potter should have married someone respectable.”
It wasn’t subtle.
People nearby heard.
Harry froze mid-step.
Draco went still as stone.
The words hit him like a thrown hex- sharp, cold, familiar. His mouth tightened. One hand instinctively went to smooth his sleeve, a tell he had never quite broken.
He opened his mouth- maybe to respond, maybe just to breathe- but he didn’t get the chance.
Because Teddy heard it too.
Teddy, who had been quiet all afternoon.
Teddy, who had already been wound tight with fear after Sirius went missing in the crowd.
Teddy, who loved Draco like an extra father.
The boy exploded.
His hair flashed scarlet- Weasley-red rage- and he marched right up to the witch before either Harry or Draco could blink.
“HEY!”
The entire street seemed to jump at the volume.
Teddy stood inches from the woman, fists balled at his sides, chest heaving, looking downright feral in his little trainers and knitted, slightly ratty looking blue jumper.
“HEY! YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THAT ABOUT MY UNCLE DRACO!”
The woman staggered back.
“Excuse me-!”
But Teddy wasn’t done.
His voice carried across the entire street.
“UNCLE DRACO IS RESPECTABLE! HE’S REALLY RESPECTABLE! HE HELPS UNCLE HARRY EVERY DAY AND TAKES CARE OF US AND MAKES SCORPIUS STOP CRYING AND CLEANS OUR ROOM EVEN WHEN WE DON’T WANT HIM TO AND- AND- HE COOKS THE REALLY GOOD PASTA!”
A few passersby blinked. One wizard muttered, “Good pasta?” in confusion.
Teddy jabbed a finger in the air, hair blazing like living fire.
“YEAH! THE GOOD PASTA! WITH THE CHEESE AND THE GARLIC AND THE LITTLE GREEN LEAVES! YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!”
Harry’s mouth fell open.
Draco’s eyes went wide- really wide- as though someone had just hit him with a Cheering Charm and a Stunning Spell at the same time.
People were staring now.
Teddy puffed up even more, voice shaking with fury:
“DRACO IS NICE! AND SMART! AND HE LOVES US! AND HE MAKES UNCLE HARRY SMILE THE MOST! SO YOU- YOU- YOU CAN JUST- JUST- HEX YOURSELF!”
Harry choked on air.
Draco made an undignified noise that might have been a strangled laugh.
The witch sputtered, “You insolent little-”
But Teddy had reached the end of his rope.
His small, shaking hands rose dramatically.
“Say it again,” he growled, “I dare you. I’ll hex your shoes off!”
Absolute silence.
The woman paled. Her friends tugged her away with scandalized gasps, and in moments they had all vanished into the crowd.
Teddy stood trembling, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.
Harry blinked.
“Teddy…” he whispered, speechless.
Teddy turned toward Draco- suddenly small again- and his hair faded to nervous blue.
“I- I didn’t mean to shout. I just… she was mean. And Uncle Draco is the best.”
Draco didn’t move.
He looked stunned, as though his brain had been knocked completely out of order.
Then- slowly, carefully- he knelt down to Teddy’s height.
“Teddy,” he said, voice thick, “come here.”
Teddy launched himself into Draco’s arms so fast Draco nearly fell backward. Draco wrapped around him tightly, fiercely, one hand in Teddy’s hair, the other clutching his back as though he couldn’t believe any of this was real.
Harry felt his throat close.
Sirius, who had been quiet- only half-aware of the grown-up drama- lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder. His little face was blotchy, eyes red from earlier crying.
He looked at Draco.
Then at Teddy.
Then at the disappearing witch.
And with all the fierce righteousness a toddler could muster, he sniffed loudly and declared:
“PAPA GOOD!”
Draco made a sound Harry had never heard before.
Half-sob.
Half-laugh.
Completely undone.
Harry reached out and pulled all three of them- Draco, Teddy, and Sirius- into the same messy, awkward, wonderful hug.
People who had witnessed the scene began smiling. A few even clapped quietly. One witch dabbed her eye with a handkerchief.
Harry kissed the side of Draco’s head, voice cracking as he whispered:
“I love you. So much.”
Draco swallowed hard.
“I… I know.”
Teddy squeezed them tighter.
“I love you too. All of you.”
Sirius wiped his nose on Harry’s shoulder and announced, much louder:
“PAPA GOOD! DADDY GOOD! ‘TOP NO BE MEAN!”
Someone nearby chuckled.
Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck.
Draco wiped his eyes with shocking lack of Malfoy composure.
They stood there in the middle of Diagon Alley- shopping bags at their feet, the boys clinging to them, the world still buzzing around them- and Harry thought he’d never loved his chaotic little family more.
The Floo deposited them gently into the front room of Grimmauld Place, though gentle was a generous word. Teddy stumbled out first, hair a muted grey with exhaustion, clutching the strap of his little satchel. Harry followed with Sirius still fused to him like a limpet, the toddler’s tear-sticky cheeks pressed to Harry’s neck, dragon dangling loosely from one hand. Draco stepped through last, Scorpius in his arms, rocking him softly against his shoulder.
The house was quiet. The lamps glowed low. And the silence after Diagon Alley felt like a warm blanket wrapping around all of them.
Harry barely made it five steps before Sirius whimpered, trembled, and then curled fully into him, going utterly boneless with exhaustion. Draco took one look at them- at Harry’s tired but gentle smile, at Sirius’s tiny hands still fisted in Harry’s shirt- and wordlessly reached for Harry’s elbow, guiding him toward the large sofa in the living room.
They collapsed onto it as one exhausted heap.
The cushions dipped deeply under their combined weight, soft and familiar. Teddy immediately wedged himself between the two adults, curling sideways until his cheek rested on Draco’s thigh. Draco kept an arm around him automatically, fingers threading through the boy’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead.
Sirius finally loosened his iron grip on Harry just enough for Draco to help shift him- gently, carefully- onto Draco’s chest. The toddler barely noticed, already drifting, breathing in soft, hiccupping little sighs. Draco wrapped one long arm around him, the other still holding Teddy.
On the other side, Harry lay back with Scorpius asleep against the centre of his chest, tiny breaths puffing through parted baby lips, one fist curled around the fabric of Harry’s jumper. Harry’s hand stroked Scorpius’s back in slow, soothing passes, almost unconsciously.
They looked like a pile of dragons guarding treasure.
Draco let his head fall back against the sofa, shoulders settling as tension drained from him piece by piece. He turned slightly to look at Harry- really look- and the sight nearly undid him.
Harry was exhausted. His hair was a wild, storm-tossed mess. His glasses were askew. But his eyes were soft. So soft it almost hurt to see.
Draco swallowed.
“Are you all right?”
Harry nodded, brushing a thumb over Scorpius’s tiny shoulder.
“Now? Yeah. I am.”
His voice was quiet. Fragile. But full.
The weight of the day settled over them both- the panic, the fear, the relief, the rawness of losing Sirius in the crowd, the fight in Diagon Alley, Teddy’s fierce little defence, the walk to the car through the Alley with the children clinging to them like vines.
Harry’s eyes flicked up to Draco again, lingering as though memorising him. Draco shifted slightly, trying not to disturb either child, and gave him a small, questioning tilt of his head.
Harry’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“You’re going to be an incredible husband.”
Draco froze.
Every muscle went taut. His breath hitched. His fingers stilled in Teddy’s hair.
For a moment he didn’t know if he could speak. The words hit him harder than that woman’s insult, harder than Teddy’s defence, harder than anything else that had happened all day.
He looked down at Sirius sleeping against his chest. At Teddy curled safe against his leg. At Harry holding their youngest like something precious. At the small, gleaming ring on Harry’s finger.
And Draco simply… melted.
His eyes softened. His chest loosened. His posture eased as though Harry’s words had dissolved the last remnants of fear clinging to him.
“Harry…” Draco whispered, voice unsteady, “You already make me feel like one.”
Harry’s expression crumpled into quiet affection. He leaned slightly toward Draco- not enough to disturb the children, but enough that their shoulders brushed and their foreheads nearly met.
They kissed.
Not dramatic. Not breathless.
A small kiss.
Delicate.
Exhausted.
A tired-laughing, half-weeping, we’re safe now kind of kiss.
Their lips barely moved, but the warmth of it spread through both of them like a charm designed to mend bones.
Teddy made a tiny snoring sound between them.
Sirius shifted against Draco’s chest, hands twitching as if he were chasing pigeons in his dreams.
Scorpius gave a tiny sigh against Harry’s shirt, scrunching his nose before settling again.
Harry pulled back only far enough to rest his head against Draco’s, their temples touching. His breath brushed Draco’s cheek.
“Look at them,” Harry murmured, “Our boys.”
Draco exhaled shakily, letting his eyes close for a moment.
“Our boys,” he echoed.
They sat like that for a long while- wrapped in warmth, wrapped in each other, wrapped in the simple miracle that they were all home, all whole, all together.
The children snored softly, each one in their own little rhythm, like a trio of tiny dragons guarding their hoard.
And Harry and Draco sank fully into the moment- two exhausted souls bound together in love, in family, in devotion that reached bone-deep.
Nothing else mattered.
Not the day.
Not the crowds.
Not the insults.
Just this.
Just them.
Just home.
The house was asleep.
Properly asleep- deep, heavy silence wrapped around the walls like a protective charm. Upstairs, the boys had finally settled after the kind of day that drained even magic from the air. Scorpius had gone down first; Sirius had fallen asleep mid-sentence; Teddy had passed out with a book still open on his chest.
It was nearly two in the morning.
Harry and Draco should have been in bed too… but neither could sleep. Their nerves were still strung too tight, their hearts still too full, their bodies still buzzing with the aftermath of making love.
So they found themselves in the kitchen.
The only light came from the small lamp over the stove, casting a gentle golden glow across the tiles and cupboards. The room smelled faintly of chamomile and the leftover shepherd’s pie from dinner.
Harry stood at the kettle, waiting for it to boil. He wore nothing but one of Draco’s shirts- soft, oversized, hanging halfway down his thighs. The collar slid off one shoulder, exposing the edge of a fading bruise from earlier. His hair, usually tied back, was fully loose, tumbling around his face in dark, unruly waves.
He looked soft. And tired. And beautiful.
Draco stared at him like he was the only thing alive in the room.
Draco, for his part, wore only sweatpants, low on his hips. His entire torso was bare- marked up with faint, blossoming bite marks along his shoulder, neck, ribs, and collarbone. Some were Harry’s. Some were Draco’s doing from earlier, claiming Harry in feverish, relieved affection after the children were asleep.
Harry’s eyes slid over one particular cluster of marks on Draco’s chest, and a slow, stunned thought passed through him:
This is to be my future husband. My future husband.
Merlin, he loved him.
As Harry reached for the mugs, Draco moved in silently behind him, slipping his arms around Harry’s waist. He pressed his forehead to the back of Harry’s neck, lips brushing the warm skin there.
Harry huffed out a soft, pleased sound.
“You’re supposed to be helping,” Harry muttered, though his voice was soft, distant, already melting.
“I am,” Draco murmured against his skin, “Moral support.”
“That’s not moral support. Your hands are- Draco, you’re distracting-”
Draco didn’t deny it. Instead, he placed one slow, lingering kiss along Harry’s shoulder as he caressed Harry’s waist with both hands. Then another. And another. Each kiss landed with a quiet care that contrasted the desperate marks from earlier. He sucked lightly at a new spot, leaving a warm bloom of sensation behind.
Harry gripped the edge of the counter for balance.
“You’re insufferable,” he whispered, breath hitching.
“And you’re wearing my favourite shirt,” Draco murmured, voice low and amused, “You knew this would happen, my love.”
“I just wanted tea,” Harry said weakly.
“You should have thought of that before putting on my clothes.”
Harry would have laughed if Draco weren’t very deliberately kissing the back of his neck.
Draco’s arms tightened around him, pulling him back against his bare chest. Harry felt the steady rise and fall of Draco’s breath, the warmth of his body, the slight tremor left over from the day’s adrenaline.
Harry exhaled and leaned back fully, resting against him.
Draco’s chin settled on Harry’s shoulder, and he kissed Harry’s cheek before murmuring:
“Let them talk.”
Harry blinked.
Draco continued, slow and certain, voice like velvet:
“Let them scream. Let them write their articles. Let them whisper in Diagon Alley.”
He brushed his lips against Harry’s temple.
“You’re mine, and I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”
Harry closed his eyes.
The kettle began to rumble in earnest, steam curling through the air. But neither moved for a moment. Harry turned his head slightly, just enough to brush his nose against Draco’s cheek.
“You really believe that?” Harry whispered.
“Yes,” Draco said without hesitation, “Today proved it.”
Harry swallowed.
“You were so calm. With Sirius. With Teddy. With that woman- well, Teddy handled her, but still.”
A soft smile tugged at him.
“You held us together.”
“I only held on to what matters,” Draco answered.
Harry pressed a hand over Draco’s forearm.
“That’s why you’re going to be an incredible husband.”
Draco stiffened for one heartbeat- just one- his breath catching as the words sank into him.
Then he softened so quickly Harry felt it like a physical shift.
His arms tightened. His voice cracked around the edges.
“I already feel like one,” Draco whispered.
Harry turned in his arms, slow, careful, until they were chest-to-chest. Draco’s hands settled at Harry’s waist. Harry’s fingers brushed the bite mark on Draco’s collarbone, tracing it gently. Draco shivered.
“You love me,” Harry said quietly, as if rediscovering the miracle of it.
“More than magic,” Draco murmured, “More than breath.”
Harry’s eyes softened, glimmering in the low light.
“I love you. So much.”
Draco cupped his cheek.
“I know.”
They kissed.
It was not heated- not like earlier- but slow, tired, full. A kiss that said thank you and I’m safe and don’t ever leave and we survived today and we’ll survive every day after.
Outside, a broom whooshed past the window. Upstairs, one of the boys snuffled. But here, in this little pocket of warmth and dawn-soon-to-come, the world was impossibly quiet.
Harry broke the kiss with a soft breath, forehead resting against Draco’s.
“We’re really doing this,” Harry whispered, “A wedding. A real one.”
Draco smiled- small, real, vulnerable.
“Our wedding.”
Harry glanced at the counter, where parchment notes and colour swatches lay scattered beside the kettle- plans they’d scribbled earlier in the evening before chaos struck. Teddy’s drawing of them in suits sat proudly on top.
Draco followed Harry’s gaze, then looked back at him.
“We’ll make something beautiful,” Draco said softly.
“We already have,” Harry murmured. His eyes flicked upward, toward the ceiling- toward their children sleeping safely above them.
The kettle whistled softly.
They both ignored it.
Instead, they laced their fingers together over the counter, hands fitting instinctively, perfectly.
Draco leaned in again. Harry met him halfway.
A quiet kiss. A soft exhale. A world narrowing to two heartbeats.
Outside the bubble of lamplight, beyond the kitchen walls, the world might be cruel, opinionated, loud.
But here-
Here it was warm.
Here it was safe.
Here it was theirs.
And while the tea steeped forgotten, and the wedding notes lay scattered across the counter, and their tiny family slept peacefully upstairs-
Harry and Draco kissed again, slow and lost and wholly theirs, letting the night wrap around them like a blessing.
-fin-